Life's Importance
by trenchcoatandtie
Summary: At John's wedding, Sherlock Holmes mentioned that John had saved his life, so many times and so many different ways. This is a story of those times. Warnings: Drug use, mention of vauge suicide attempt and maybe more in future chapters. COMPLETE
1. Addicted

Hi everyone, this is my first fic so I hope it is okay! If there are any inaccuracies or errors, please tell me :)

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John Watson blamed himself.

There had been no case for over a week, and Sherlock had been hyperactive, irritable, and shouted at least seven times at John and Mrs Hudson for his cigarettes.

Given all this, the doctor should have known something was off when Sherlock stomped out of the flat at 1 am, muttering something about getting some fresh air.

John knew something was off when sherlock returned at 3 am the next morning, almost collapsing into 221B with a fresh line of track marks on his arm.

John checked the flat, obviously, and found a stash of cocaine hidden in Sherlock's sock index. John got rid of it, of course.

Next morning, when the detective was coherent and looked like he could process a few sentences, John had scolded him harshly and gave him that look of disappointment he knew Sherlock detested.

The real panic, as if there wasn't enough already, started when John was walking home from Tesco and tripped up on a human shaped lump. Especially when that lump was wearing the same Belstaff coat and blue scarf as his flatmate.

"Bloody hell, who would be lyin- Wait, Sherlock? Sherlock! Fuck. Can you hear me? Jesus Christ."

The ambulance arrived 7 minutes after John dialled 999, and the paramedics were asking him all sorts of questions.

"How long ago did you find him?"

"Was he unconscious?"

"Has he had a previous experience with drugs?"

"This may be an overdose sir, do you know his medical history?"

"Are you a family member?"

But John was like a ghost, and the comments floated through him without leaving any impact.

After several hours of hospital beds, a concerned phone call from Mycroft and Lestrade, and a rant from John about how he thought Sherlock health was 'past all that', the consulting detective and his assistant were in a cab on their way to Baker street.

The stony silence filled the cab, suppressing all hopes of a decent conversation.

When the pair arrived at their home, Sherlock stumbled past John and into his bedroom, where John could faintly hear Sherlock's body colliding with the mattress.

Half an hour later, John's web history looked a bit like this:

How To Get Your Friend Off Drugs

article/how-...

What is cocaine withdrawal like

search/php37...

Drug Withdrawal - How Dangerous?

.eu/po...

From what John could find out, the withdrawal would include agitation, depression, fatigue and nightmares but thankfully, no physical symptoms.

The Doctor fell asleep 2 hours later, sprawled on top of his laptop, and was awoken by his flatmate trying to sneak past John to the door.

"Don't think I'm letting you go anywhere, Sherlock."

"Please, John. Just one more, then I'll stop. Please!"

Sherlock looked like hell. John doubted he'd slept the other night, but he looked like he hadn't slept for a week. He still had his coat on, and was swaying faintly. If a breeze cane through the flat, John reckoned Sherlock would topple over.

"No. I'm not letting you destroy your body like that."

"Well if you're not going to give me any, get out."

John looked up from his laptop, surprised at Sherlock's statement.

"Sorry, what?"

"John, my withdrawal is extremely harmful, to me and others around me, so I would prefer if you weren't hurt. Get out, John."

"No. I am a doctor, Sherlock, and it is my job to help people, so I am going to help you. I don't care if you object, because you can't do this alone, and I am going to help you. Got it?"

Sherlock's eyes showed a glimmer of surprise, and he looked at John closely.

"But... Why? Why would you want to help me? Why would anyone want to help me?"

"Because you're my friend, and that's what we do."

So for the next few weeks, Sherlock suffered through withdrawal and John tried to help him as much a he could.

It was a stressful time for both of them. One night John woke up to his flatmate holding his gun against his head, and Sherlock even managed to crack a mirror, causing minor injuries to him and three hours less sleep for John.

Many days at a time were filled with Sherlock curled up in a fetal position of the sofa, when others contrasted hugely, John watching woth a concerned eye as his best friend paced up and down the flat for hours without stopping. He ate even less than usual, which was barely anything. If it wasn't for the doctor's persuasion, Sherlock would have turned into a walking skeleton.

It felt like years, but withdrawal for the consulting detective didn't last as long as the various internet sources said, but that was probably because Sherlock had been clean for vaguely four years before he overdosed that fateful night, and the cocaine he took wasn't contaminated. Sure, Sherlock still had mild cracings every now and then, but they weren't severe.

Three months later, 221B was mostly back to normal, or as normal as you can get with a high functioning sociopath for a flatmate.

It had never occurred to John that he had saved his flatmate's life, but Sherlock thought of it many times, just one more of the countless reasons John Watson was his best friend.

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Hope you liked it :) Please rate if you feel the need to.


	2. Lost

I finally got wifi! Hope you enjoy, this is the first half of this part, as you will see. Sorry for any mistakes or inaccuracies, my only source is the internet.

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"John! Come on! Now!"

There must have been something in Sherlock's voice, or perhaps it was the sight of five gunmen rapidly closing the distance between him and John, but he obeyed.

Together, without a single thought, they began to run up the slope, away from the small village. The edge of the forest, an endless line of thick trunks, branches, pine needles and shadows stretched out before them.

Sherlock was sweating. His whole body felt as if it were trapped inside an oven. Something hit him on the shoulder and for a crazy moment Sherlock thought a bullet had hit him. But it was nothing more than a fat raindrop.

The storm was about to break.

I should explain first, though. These two didn't just randomly start being chased by five armed madmen, there is a story to all this.

Sherlock had surprisingly accepted this case when Lestrade called, even though it was only a five out of ten according to the detective, and Sherlock only goes when it is a seven or above.

There were two murders so far, and the police had deduced there being no reliable connections between the two, apart from the murder style being one bullet through each hand, one through each foot, and a cross burnt onto their chest.

Sherlock had already deduced it before he left the flat. An extremist cult of Christians, killing Atheists in an 'acceptable' way. According to the consulting detective, they were based in Estrov, Russia, and even had a website.

Sherlock was disappointed with these criminals, and wanted to go to Russia to show them what they did wrong and insult them in the classic sherlockian way. John just came along. As usual.

Unfortunately, when they got there, it seemed that not all the group had been arrested. In fact, five of the estimated twelve members had not been captured.

And that is how they came to be sprinting away from them.

John and Sherlock plunged into the forest. Instantly they were surrounded by green, with leaves and branches everywhere and soft moss beneath their feet.

It was already raining harder. Water was dripping down and maybe that helped Sherlock. He was invisible. He was away from the danger.

It was only when the detective stopped, gasping for air like a fish out of water, that he realised John was not with him.

The gunmen were long gone, but Sherlock did not want to risk calling out and attracting their attention.

He looked around, straining his eyes to see if John was close by.

Alas, all Sherlock could see as he spun around, was green. So much green. The only thing that broke the pattern of bright leaves and dark moss were the tree trunks, but even they were home to vines, long and warped, suffocating the bark.

So Sherlock tried to find a way out. Away from the stifling forest, somewhere where the sky wasn't covered by many layers of greenery.

However, despite his resourceful mind palace and massive intellect, there was nothing for him to observe. No small clues, no misplaced scrapes on tree trunks, no rustled leaves.

He walked. For minutes, hours, days. Sherlock did not know. Kept heading in one direction, because that would lead him out. Eventually. Wouldn't it?

The consulting detective was feeling faint. According to his phone, which had died a few hours ago, Sherlock had been in this forest for three days. How was it possible? For nature to make something this big, such a puzzle, that the famous bloody _Sherlock Holmes_ couldn't solve?

He hadn't eaten. Hadn't slept, either. There was no sustenance in the forest, the plants and leaves were inedible, and would leave him feeling even worse.

The forest was... spinning? Green planted turned hazy, and the leaves were merging into each other. He felt himself toppling forward.

Sherlock blacked out, but not before he heard a faint shout of his name.

"Sherlock!"


	3. Found

It was a miracle that John had found Sherlock. He had ran out of the forest to find a tiny local village and sneaked past a farmer lying on his back, smelling strongly of alcohol, to find a meagre patch of lettuce, turnips and carrots, none looking very healthy.

However, the blond man was desperate and ate whatever he could get his hands on.

The village locals had not been much help, seeing as they only spoke russian and most of them were either drunk, too old to understand anything, or young children.

John's only choice, though idiotic and likely to make him die of starvation, was to go out into the forest again and rescue Sherlock from whatever predicament he had got himself into.

With no food or water for three days, John should've expected to find the detective unconscious, but perhaps observing him without food for at one time, nearly a week, biased his medical thoughts.

However, the doctor's attention was completely focused on Sherlock, the only dark shape that stood our amongst the various shades of green.

"Sherlock!"

John immediately checked the brunette's vitals, and found his breathing rate to be slow but steady, however Sherlock appeared to be suffering from severe dehydration and lack of food.

"Sherlock. Can you hear me?"

The man in question stirred and weakly tried to sit up, his eyes darting around in fright.

"John?"

"Yeah, it's me. Come on, drink this."

John pulled out a half full bottle of water from his rucksack and gave it to Sherlock, who almost choked at the speed he was drinking.

"Woah! Easy mate, you're okay. Here, have something to eat."

Sherlock ignored John and looked around in confusion.

"Where are we?" He asked hoarsely, probably because of the dehydration.

"I found you here, you were unconscious. Now come on, I know the way out."

John helped Sherlock struggle weakly to his feet, and they both walked for about three hours before they saw a familiar building.

Soon they found the police station and got help from some of the few people who spoke english, and where on the next plane to Heathrow.

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I am really sorry I haven't updated in a while and that this chapter is really short! When I update after this, I will put this chapter and the previous together. I was travelling, and did not have much inspiration. Really sorry readers!


	4. Shot

Wow, an update! I had this idea from watching Ride Along on Saturday (it's really funny, watch if you can!) and did lots of research in fear of inaccuracies. Fall Out Boy helps to. Anyway, enjoy! :)

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It started with a normal day in the life of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, chasing a criminal down the streets of London in the middle of the night.

It was all going normally until the suspect pulled a pistol out of his jacket pocket and started shooting wildly.

Since neither Sherlock nor John dropped to the ground, they assumed that the criminal was a bad aim, like 90% of the people that attempted to shoot at the duo.

When the suspect was cuffed and shoved into the back of a police van, they thought that this was the normal end to a chase. However, John knew something was not right because of a streetlight shining on Sherlock's leg and the dull glistening of something that shouldn't be there.

"Sherlock, you're bleeding."

"What? John, I think I'd know if I was injured."

"No really, look at your leg."

"Ridiculo- oh. Oh. John."

Sherlock looked shocked, and almost didn't believe the dull burning sensation in his leg until a warm trickle of blood was coming out of the hole in his trousers.

John would've almost laughed at Sherlock's horrified expression, but instead of cracking up in front of the clearly terrified man, John went into his doctor mode.

"The bullet went straight through, and lucky for you there don't seem to be any bones broken."

John took off Sherlock's scarf an wrapped it tightly around his leg to diminish the bleeding.

"Right, we have to get to hospital."

"Yes John, just because I've been shot doesn't mean I'm an imbecile. I know that."

"Right then. Lucky for you, we are only about fifty metres to the nearest A&E and the adrenalin is still in your system, so you hopefully won't feel too much."

When the pair arrived at the hospital, they received strange and worried looks from the staff and patients.

To the duo's disappointment, Sherlock had to stay overnight.

To Sherlock, the first night hurt like the hounds of hell were gnawing at his leg, especially after the morphine wore off. After that, it was all pain and weird looks for a while.

When the hospital finally let Sherlock leave and their their taxi stopped at the door of 221B, they faced the most difficult task of all.

Climbing the stairs.

Thankfully, Sherlock had been given an extra dose of morphine before he departed, so he did not cry out each time pressure was out on his injured leg.

Recovery was fast, and exactly a week later, the pair were chasing yet another (unarmed) criminal up small alleyways and past downtown newsagents.

When John is asked about this event, he says that he didn't save his friend's life, because Sherlock wasn't in life threatening danger.

On the other hand, Sherlock stubbornly insists that without Watson's help, he would have died, or at least had an extremely more painful recovery.

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Hey all! I hope you enjoyed this story, and I think that I'm going to finish it here. If I get more inspiration I may continue, but that is quite unlikely. Anyway, bye and have a nice day :3


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